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“The last woman who cooked for me was my mom. Thanks for breakfast.”
I leave her standing in the kitchen and walk down the hallway to the work that’s always waiting for me.
* * *
Hannah’s family picks us up just after noon. Herentirefamily. Dean is driving, with Cynthia in the passenger seat. April, Eddie, and Rachel are taking up the middle row. Rachel climbs out so that Hannah and I can crawl into the third row.
Cynthia offers her seat to me, but I politely decline.
It takes some maneuvering to get into the seat, much less get comfortable. The stiff fabric of my suit isn’t meant for twisting and contorting, and there’s little space to work with.
Hannah’s lips twitch as she glances over at me, my knees folded in front of me so high they nearly reach my chin.
It’s cramped and warm in the rear of the car. The sun is on full blast, turning the temperature up to the mid-seventies. It’s a shock to my system since New York hasn’t passed sixty in months.
I’ve never ridden in the way back of a car before. Just like with breakfast, it’s a realization that occurs to me randomly. It’s usually just me and a driver in a vehicle, the same way the people who cook for me are always paid to do so.
Once we’re moving, Hannah pulls her feet out of the footwell and taps my knee, tugging it toward her. I accept the silent invitation, stretching my legs out so they cross the center seat and taking advantage of the full length of the car. It’s still tight but not quite as cramped. Hannah is the one huddled up now, her long legs mostly hidden beneath the skirt of her dress.
I lean over and grab her foot, pulling it toward me until her leg is in my lap. After a second of hesitation, her second leg slides over too.
Neither of us say anything.
Music is on, and the windows are down. Rachel and Eddie are arguing about something in the middle, while Cynthia is telling Dean what route he’s supposed to be taking to the stadium. He’s insisting he knows a better way.
There’s a lot of noise and activity around us, and somehow that makes this feel more intimate. My right elbow is resting on the cupholder beneath the window, but I place my left on her calf because I’m not sure where else to put that hand.
This could certainly be defined as another judgment lapse. But I shove those thoughts away and focus on the scenery flying by. I’ve only been to Los Angeles a few times before, and the most recent time was years ago. All those trips were centered around work, the same as most of my travel.
These are all new parts of the city to me: the residential streets, the glimpses of the beach and boardwalks, the huge stadium we park outside.
April is the one who pulls a seat forward this time. She smiles when she sees me and Hannah tangled together, and we quickly separate. I climb out first, since I’m essentially blocking Hannah in. And then turn, offering her a hand. She tumbles out of the car, her foot getting caught up in the hem of her dress. I half-catch her, stumbling back a step as her body collides with mine.
“Sorry.” She pulls away immediately, grabbing the side of the car for support instead.
“It’s fine. You good?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Her tone is casual, but her cheeks are red, obviously aware of her entire family staring at us. I nod and step away, putting more distance between us.
We join the streams of people crossing the parking lot, heading into the stadium. Then we split off to a private entrance that leads to an elevator, which takes us to the top of the field.
The view from the box seats is impressive. The contrasting stripes of green neatly mowed, the tan dirt immaculately raked, and the four white bases blinding in the sunlight. An array of food and drinks is spread out behind the indoor seating, and a door leads out into an uncovered section of seats that are closer to the field. A group much larger than ours could comfortably fit in here.
Everyone gravitates toward the food first. There’s multiple kinds of salad, pizza, chicken tenders, grilled hot dogs, and pretty much every kind of food considered quintessentially American.
“Oliver.”
I stop in my tracks as soon as I hear Mr. Garner say my name.
Rachel, who’s right ahead of me, pauses, glances back, and then continues walking.
“Yes?”
Hannah’s father’s expression is impassive as he studies me, and I resist the urge to fidget. He may not know what happened between me and his daughter last night, but I sure as hell do. And it’s all I can think about right now, unfortunately.
“Hannah mentioned you’ve never been to a game before?”
